who,what,why....whatever!

Mascara & Modelling

2007-10-20T04:54:00.000-07:00

From a glamour perspective it’s fair to say that I’m probably as high maintenance as an empty packet of crisps. I wouldn’t call myself scruffy either, just that I tend to dress for comfort as opposed to making a fashion statement.

The same also applies to hair and make up. The former looks stylish for about 2 days in 2 months, those being when someone competent gets their hands on it. The rest of the time it looks as if someone without a clue has randomly ruffled wax in it (which is of course exactly what I do).

As for make up, well nursing doesn’t require much in the way of facepaint so my skin spends 99% of the time au naturel. If I’m feeling really extravagant I may grab the mascara – though it’s all a bit hit and miss as the mirror in the bathroom has usually steamed up so I end up either poking myself in the eye on clumping all my eyelashes together. Neither of which are good looks. There is of course a slim chance that one day my skin may thank me for leaving it as a blank canvas.

So why is it then that I have over the past few weeks found myself being drawn into the world of Living TV’s “America’s Next Top Model”. A reality TV programme which does as it says and wheedles out the wheat from the chaff (or should I say chav) to find the best America has to offer.

Do I watch it with aspirations of becoming a model? Quite definitely not (fortunate really as I lack all the necessary attributes). Though I have to confess to shimmying up and down the lounge practicing my catwalk poses. All of course to the incredulation of the other half, who inbetween dodging my artistic end of catwalk flourishes enquires as to: 'why?'

I think its attraction is simple. Firstly it’s on when I come home from work and is proving to be the perfect antidote to relieving the stress of sitting on the M4 for an hour. Secondly, it’s pure and simple voyeurism.

Though having said all that as I’m drawn further and further in I find myself enjoying what it’s about – the illusions of beauty. It’s reassuring to come to the realisation that women aren’t born supermodels. Yes, there are naturally beautiful women out there, but hours and hours of high maintenance tweaking and re-styling takes then to the images that adorn the catwalks and pages of our magazines.

There is an element of the interllectual snob within that is not impressed with the rest of me for watching it, even less now that I find myself rushing through the door to tune in. There are of course a million other more productive things I could be doing. But I’m sure, at least I hope the novelty will wear off soon ...

Untill then, tomorrow I’m going to town to buy some hair dye.

Deforestation

2007-08-26T04:04:00.001-07:00

Every couple of months nature decrees that my eyebrows need a little cutting down to size. For this I turn to the experts. In all honesty this has very little to do with pampering and more to do with the fact that my approach to shaping is more akin to manic pruning with disastrous consequences.

Eyebrows have preoccupied my thoughts in recent weeks. The reason? I can’t find anyone to shape them and they are in grave danger of growing out of control - taking on an appearance a la Heseltine. (Ok, I jest slightly, but time is not on my side).

Frustratingly though I’m not asking for some complex electrolysis procedure. No, I just need someone willing to yank a few hairs out.

So three weeks have past since I began my search. Ironically even the trusty internet has failed to deliver the anticipated comprehensive list of phone numbers. Even my elation on finding someone who does the job was short lived as call after call I’m met by answerphones, people on holiday, staff shortages and overflowing appointments diaries. Just as I was about to resign myself to waiting out the holiday period page two of my umpteenth google search came up trumps…

….Of course I was totally wrong footed by the response that yes they did do eyebrows and yes they did have a space in 30 minutes. Grabbing my bag I shot out of the door.

There was a brief moment of panic whilst sat in the salon, they apologised for running late. Would they cancel? But I was going nowhere. I’d been waiting 3 weeks, 30 minutes was nothing. 15 minutes later I was heading out of the door with my newly shaped, deforested eyebrows, a contented smile on my face.

Their number is now safely stored in my phone.

X-Men & Anita Dobson

2007-08-22T12:55:00.001-07:00

The irony that I’m going to Comic Con in Earls Court on September 1^stwill not be lost on those who know me. The extent of my comic reading began and ended with Bunty some 25 years ago and it is considered a significant feat of achievement if I manage to stay awake beyond the first half hour of a film.

Comic con is as I understand it a 2 day geekfest – a model buying and autograph hunting frenzy. Though it instantly gained kudos in my eyes when I found out that Dominic Monaghan and Bill Nighy were going to be there. Still, I wear geek glasses so should be able to blend in no problem.

I have been making a gallant effort to get into the spirit and bought a comic -Not just any old comic though (I’ve been informed that Bunty doesn’t really cut the mustard!), but X-men – which is apparently where it’s all at. Much to the other half’s (and indeed my) surprise I’m halfway through it…….didn’t realise X-men was so racy. Either I’m becoming prudish or it’s not like the cartoon version that used to be on Saturday mornings.

So with one week to go excitement is mounting – especially with news that Anita Dobson (her of Eastenders and big hair fame) is going to be there. Perhaps I can get her to sign my X-men comic.

Ouch!

2007-08-19T09:56:00.000-07:00

As it's been a little over 6 months since I added anything I thought it was high time I put pen to paper (well finger to keyboard) and wrote something.

To be honest it is a wonder I can actually type anything as every muscle in my body is aching. No I haven't got a dose of summer flu, I've started going to the gym where a woman called Cheryl shouts at me. Not in an abusive way, but to instill motivation in my sloath like body. The decision to get fit was spurred on my a number of factors - not least the fact that playing on the Nintendo Wii felt like a 45minute workout.

Needless to say my body hasn't reacted too kindly to this rareity known as exercise so I am walking around looking somewhat decrepid. But somehow still managing to hobble with a certain smugness.

I have been an absolute nightmare this week as every other sentence has contained the word gym. If only talking about it could burn calories - I'd have a size 10 body in no time.

Mane & Tail

2007-02-13T10:36:00.000-08:00

As well as ministering to patients needs much time at work is also spend talking. The nurses I work with are from various parts of the world – so I have over the years obtained a diverse, albeit somewhat obscure knowledge of life in the Philippines, India, Germany, Africa, Australia and New Zealand.

Always keen to embrace new cultures I enthusiastically devour pakora and all manner of other exotic delights (admittedly, perhaps this is motivated by greed rather than cultural enlightenment) and I have acquired an eclectic knowledge of useless words in various languages. However one thing I have been more reticent about trying is horse shampoo. For 4 years my Filipino colleagues have been looking at my much maligned hair, lifting up its limp strands and letting out sighs. They have not been shy in letting me know their despair. But Mane and Tail they said would be the answer to all my problems. Although I have to admit I have come to think that my hair is more of a problem to them than me. I am resigned I will never have beautiful, long, silky locks, Mane and Tail or not.

Still ,when one of my friends excitedly gave me a bottle of Mane and Tail they’d bought for me from the Philippines excitement took hold. Perhaps I would be soon joined the ranks of glossy manes afterall.

As to be expected Mane and Tail came in an unassuming bottle – no packaging pretences and did look as if it would be more at home in a tack room than at the end of my bath. Still, reassuringly, it did have instructions for human use on the bottle. Interestingly it looked and smelt like bog standard shampoo. The cynic in me thinking this was perhaps some double bluff marketing ploy.

So in I went to work this morning with my newly washed Mane and Tail hair. After 5 minutes of shaking my head around no one had noticed and I was getting despondent and dizzy. I then opted for the more direct approach asking them if it looked different. Apparently not, although they reassured me it takes more than one day, especially in hair of my condition.

Then.. shock horror, someone did comment on how nice my hair looked. Now obviously this could be a set up, but no, it was a doctor who had not been privy to the Mane and Tail saga. Basking in the unfamiliar glow of such comments I trotted off to my desk, giving my hair a little shake as I went. It was all I could do to stop myself whinnying.

Tomorrow brings day 2 of Mane and Tail. Perhaps by the end of the week I will have mane like hair. Though I’ve been thinking back to my days of horse riding. From what I remember manes were made of thick wiry hair. Is this really something I aspire to?

Whiskey marmalade & the bridging region

2007-02-11T11:21:00.000-08:00

I find myself every so often buying a copy of Cosmopolitan. An irony, as I am the antithesis of the cosmopolitan woman. Sometimes I just want to peer in and voyeuristically flick through the pages of that world.

So it was I settled down yesterday to read the March edition. With the front cover shouting the following how could I fail to get excited;

35 real men get naked – This actually did little to get me excited. I am a nurse and spend my days up to my armpits in naked men of the real variety. Seeing the male member day in day out bathed in the soft disinfected luminance of the hospital lighting disengages any such desire.

Love your body fashion updates – I did wonder whether I could perhaps learn a few pointers from these pages. I have to confess my criteria for clothing tends to be comfort first and foremost. Occasionally I do wonder if the other half would like to see me dressed in a slinky little number and prancing around in high heels, as opposed to my smock top and timberland boots. Testing the waters on potential suitable attire, I passed the magazine over to him, open on a fashion page bearing a very leggy blonde wearing a denim shorted jumpsuit. From his 5 minutes of hysterical laughter I gathered he thought that perhaps this was not my look.

As he kindly put it: “We’re not built like this,” obviously including himself in the generalisation designed to water down the blow.

To give him credit, having seen the crestfallen look on my face he overcame his choking and sudden nervousness to continue an explanation: “You see,” he said pointing at her lean brown thighs, “her legs don’t touch at all, they’re just long and don’t even meet at the top, they are joined by that little bridging region.”

I for one have no idea what ‘bridging region’ means anatomically speaking. He continued, starting to feel brave: “Our legs join slightly below the bridging region so these sort of shorts just ride up and look rubbish.”

At this point, realising the truth in his wisdom, I realised that it was perhaps time to move on. Though making a mental note to find out whether “bridging region” was some recognised euphemism I was unfamiliar with.

Hottest sex moves ever – Admittedly I did spend a few moments on these pages. But when mouthfuls of whiskey were mentioned along with flaccid members I flicked over – the closest thing I had to this was whiskey marmalade and somehow I didn’t think it would be a suitable substitute for what they had in mind.

There had been momentary excitement when I turned a page to find some of my favourite beauty products carefully arranged alongside a three page article, but this was short lived when I realised it was referring to products of the last century.

So it was that 20 minutes later I had reached the end of the magazine feeling no more enlightened than I had previously. Cosmopolitan remains as much of an enigma as ever and to be honest, I’m grateful for the fact that my personality cannot be moulded and defined by 232 pages of a glossy magazine.

IT illiterate

2007-01-28T11:09:00.000-08:00

The conversation between an IT literate and an IT non literate can be a painful one. I speak as one who knows. I am IT illiterate. With this in mind I usually try to avoid having such conversations with my other half. Especially as he has diagnosed that I have an inability to follow simple instructions!

This week however has seen the other half away with work. Under normal circumstances this wouldn’t be a problem. An odd phone call to inform me he misses me, can’t wait to see me and to enquire whether I have had anymore dodgy haircuts. However, this week he forgot his mobile phone. (Now of course some might say this all sounds highly dubious and the perfect excuse for him to have a nag free week! I agree it doesn’t look good – but then again we are talking about the man who once walked home from the petrol station and forgot his car!)

No problem he said, we can MSN. Typing messages into a little box and pressing return – what could be so difficult about that?! What indeed, well nothing bar the fact I kept getting disconnected and hopelessly confused in my attempts at troubleshooting. Increasingly terse messages from my beloved seemed to negate the idiom absence makes the heart grow fonder! I knew I was onto dodgy ground when the messages were being sent in CAPITAL LETTERS!

Fuelled by some kind of gung-ho mentality he then decided to go one stage further and give me a crash course in voice activated MSN! Still wondrous at the abilities of modern technology I took inordinate delight in pressing play and hearing his voice. Keen to reciprocate I pressed the buttons as instructed and started uttering words of endearment into the computer – nothing. So I began shouting words of endearment - still nothing!! By this stage I am sure the neighbours had a glass to the wall wondering what I was doing!

As 10 minutes became 30 and then 45 minutes with still no sign of a functioning microphone utterings of endearment became mutterings of frustration. Acknowledging that my ineptitude had beaten him we agreed to abandon any further attempts to communicate in this way.

Recovering from IT overload I was disturbed by yet more technology, my mobile phone vibrating somewhere in my bag. Retrieving it I was rewarded by the much cheerier tones of the other half. Courtesy apparently of skype. (Skype it would seem being some internet telephone software rather than an oddly named friend lending him his phone!).

An email to my phone the next day left me even more confused about technology. Computers that can make phone calls and phones that can receive emails. Perhaps it would have been better if I’d stuck to old fashioned letter writing!

A Hair Raiser!

2007-01-08T14:34:00.000-08:00

I have not been blessed with well behaved hair; by this I mean that my hair does not resemble the stuff of shampoo commercials. In fact if I am honest it barely resembles a hairstyle half the time.

I have long since accepted my fate and now choose to have an extra 15 minutes in bed each morning rather than attacking my hair with an assortment of electrical styling implements. Of course I own a variety of the aforementioned tools, but they are safely tucked away in cupboards, collecting dust; the hot air blowers in the car have proven to be fairly reliable means of drying hair.

I do however have moments when I wish I could look stylish and at least give my hair some semblance of shape. It is for this reason that I actually quite like going to the hairdressers.

I’ve never quite gone regularly enough to have a usual stylist. Instead opting for the whoever has the soonest appointment approach. But I do at least show salon loyalty, although the primary reason for this is the fact they have fabulous chairs that massage your back and legs while having your hair washed.

Which brings me to today. Waking this morning and acknowledging that my hair now appeared to be growing outwards rather than downwards, I took drastic action and booked an appointment; symptomatic of my hair despair I always go into the hairdressers with the request: “give it a shape, maybe something different, whatever you think”. Over the years this has resulted in having 8 inches cut off, various perms, going blonde, going red and today’s restyle – having a fringe.

Having been assured that my cowlick wouldn’t be a problem - my other half says this simply means I apparently have hair like Jack Black in King Kong - she cut and cut and cut some more; while I sat in the chair twiddling my fingers, smiling inanely and wondering why it is that hairdresser’s mirrors always make you look so ill!

Some 30 minutes later the deed was done. The hair was dried and I was sat there not quite sure what to say. 6 hours later I’m still not quite sure what to say. Although the other half has, in between bouts of hysterical laughter more than made up for my lack of words regarding my hair (I elaborate for comic effect); he has of course been supportive: apparently it’s almost contemporary and it is only from certain angles that it makes me look like his mother!

The usual tricks of hair brushing or wildly shaking my head haven’t helped yet. All hopes are currently pinned on the impact a good night’s sleep will have; a true case of sleeping on it. Failing this, well I guess I’ll be back to the hairdressers tomorrow!

Minus the magic knickers

2006-12-23T11:31:00.000-08:00

The Christmas party has been and gone. I decided to abandon the magic knickers and instead opted for a week of starvation, which proved to be much more effective! Although predictably I am now finding myself roaming around work excessively sampling the pre Christmas delights of mince pies, pakora, cakes, biscuits, samosa and chocolates. (One of the advantages of working in such a multicultural environment has been the revelation that is pakora).

The realisation that I can be feminine has been one of great excitement. Though I have to admit it is too time consuming and exhausting for me to consider adopting it as a lifestyle change anytime soon. The endless appointments of having bits added, other bits removed and more bits straighted in the end proved tiresome (Incidently these bits being nail varnish, eyebrows and hair). But I am still smiling at the fact I wore a long, grey, clingy dress and pulled it off. Looking feminine that is, not the dress.

Most amusing of all the pre party preparations had to be the St Tropez tan. Having had one before I had a hazy recollection of what to expect, but typically my mind had blocked out the true extent of humiliation. As I stood there naked aside from a pair of paper knickers, legs astride, arms in the air with a woman brandishing a gun just inches from me, I was reminded. It did however serve as the perfect opportunity to road test my banal conversation, she did not seem wholly impressed!

So it was that three quarters of an hour later, wearing an eclectic assortment of old baggy clothes, covered head to toe in brown vegetable dye and emitting a rather odd odour that I made my way home.

The requisite 8 hours later (well 7 hours 45 minutes as I had to go to work) I washed off the dye, which had now taken on a scarily orange tone. Thankfully the washed off version was far more appealing to the eye and reasonably authentic looking (good job really as I don’t think turning orange is an acceptable reason for not going into work). As it was, it proved to be a source of amusement for the patients as they made endless wisecrack comments about my sudden change in colour. Of course like a true professional I smiled as they asked if I had to pay more in view of the extra surface area they had to cover. Compared to this, banal Christmas party chit chat would be a doddle.

Magic Knickers

2006-12-10T07:11:00.000-08:00

…Tis the season to be jolly and the season to run around shops in a frantic rush to find a dress for the Christmas party.

The dress hire shop. In theory every girls dream, in reality a bit of a nightmare, unless that is you have the perfect size 10 figure. Though of course in today’s society size 10 has been literally downsized to a generous size 6. The assortment of dresses, some frilly, some sparkly and a couple even bearing a suspiciously leopard skin looking print sent me into panic.

Panic subsided and an hour later I had decided upon a sparkly, grey, long, clingy number. The latter of which has now become a cause for concern. I have what could be referred to as a curvaceous figure. This has led to 10 days of concerted effort to try and make the overall effect more pleasing to the eye. Key to this has been subjecting my midriff to electric impulses, succumbing to Slendertone’s advertising blurb. But the secret weapon in this assault has been the acquisition of some super duper hold it all it, boost it all up underwear. The much touted magic knickers. Except of course they aren’t magic, there is no miraculous vanishing of flesh. It simply displaces it to very bizarre places! As Mr P pointed out as I subjected him to the "am I or aren't I wearing" game.

Faced with a vast array of choices, even this purchase wasn’t straightforward. I could seemingly suck in/boost my bum, thighs and stomach or a combination of the aforementioned. There was even a stretchy lycra tube sucking everything in from armpits to knees. As might be expected it was not a sexy look, that actually being a huge understatement. Added to this was the complication that the sparkly, grey, long, clingy dress had a low cut back and a slit up the front. Neither conducive to disguising such unattractive undergarments. Faced with this dilemma a full on attack was decided upon. So it was that 4 hours later I arrived home with a variety of lycra.

As for shoes; I have over the past week taken to doing housework in my newly acquired high heeled, strappy, glittery sandals. Thankfully my walking has progressed, from precarious teetering to a semi confident stagger. It would seem I am a long way from elegant gliding.

I can only be thankful that Christmas parties come just once a year.

Washing up - short story

2006-11-19T14:08:00.000-08:00

We have a rota in our house, it sits on the fridge door, held in place by multicoloured alphabet magnets. Dad had it laminated, he says it will make it last longer. How long does it have to last though? The thought of living by a rota until I leave home is pretty miserable. I have the job of washing up on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays: my little brother Ned only has to do 3 days on account of his age and dad wanting to limit the crockery bill.

We never used to have a rota, we never used to have to wash up. We used to come home from school, throw our bags in the corner of the kitchen by the dog’s basket and sit at the table telling mum about our day at school. Always our tales would be accompanied by banana milkshake and homemade flapjack. Mostly mum would sit with us drinking a mug of coffee, but even if she was busy in the kitchen she would still listen to us. We knew she was because we could see her shoulders shaking, trying not to laugh as we told her about various pranks at school. Dad, on the other hand did not hear us. He’d listen, or at least pretend to as we leapt on him as he came though the door. But somehow his pile of unopened post always seemed more interesting. Sometimes we’d test him and make up pretend stories to see if he heard, mostly he didn’t. We stopped testing him, it seemed pointless, we had mum.

But one day everything changed. Mum died. As sudden as that. She’d driven us to school in the morning. I’d forgotten my gym kit and shouted at mum because she hadn’t put it ready in my bag for me. I feel bad about our last conversation. I had been in double maths when I was caled out by the school secretary, apparently the headmistress wanted to see me. I knew it wasn’t because I’d forgotten my gym kit. I knew something was wrong, the fact that the normally fierce secretary was smiling kindly, with red rimmed eyes was a huge give away. By the time we reached the door of the office I had imagined all kinds of things. Mum and Dad were getting divorced, our dog had been run over, Nan was dead. Somehow it never crossed my mind that something had happened to mum. It had been a car accident. When I reached the office dad was sat there, I now know what deathly pale looks like. “It was quick” was all I heard him say.

We existed over the next couple of weeks, did little more than that. It was as if time stood still for us. The three of us, Dad, Ned and I all reacted differently. Dad became super efficient, organising the funeral, the flowers, the caterers, everything. Sometimes as I watched him I wondered if maybe he hadn’t ever loved mum at all, perhaps he was glad she was dead. They had shouted at each other a lot over the past year. Mum always seemed angry that he came home late from the office. Dad always seemed angry that she was angry and didn’t appreciate him. Always the same. But then I’d come downstairs after my bath to say goodnight and find them curled up on the sofa together.

Ned didn’t say much to anyone, he wouldn’t talk to me, he wouldn’t talk to dad. But I used to hear him talking to his toy dinosaurs, telling them how much he missed mum. It took time, but slowly he began to talk about her. It has been nearly 2 years now and we talk about mum all the time, imagining her reactions to things we do. We still have homemade flapjack, I make it every Sunday.

Losing mum changed me a lot, I grew up really quickly. For a time I was angry that she had left me, left us. You see I needed her, I still do. I get angry less now, but I do wish I had my friends carefree lives. They spend their time fighting with their little brothers, not making sure they brush their teeth and remember their gym kit. I forget occasionally, but Ned doesn’t shout at me, he remembers that day. I have less friends now, lots didn’t know what to say to me, so they said nothing. I miss them too.

Soon after the funeral, Ned and I were sent back to school. Well meaning adults, dad included decided it would be for the best. “Children need routine” I heard them say. “No” I wanted to cry, “Children need their mum”.

Everything changed for us. Dad now works from home. We turned the garage into an office so he is never late home. If it’s after 6pm and he’s lost track of time all we have to do is knock on the door. It’s been strange getting to know dad. Of course we knew him before, but it was always mum we went to if we needed something. Dad’s great, he’s actually pretty funny when he forgets about work. I make Ned and my milkshake now, but dad does the cooking. We eat spaghetti bolognaise a lot, it’s the only recipe dad’s really mastered, aside from salad. Actually we are eating a lot of salads at the moment, dad said he was letting himself go and looking like an old man. But I think the real reason is a woman called Sally. We met her last weekend, she came with us to the summer fayre.

Awaiting the locusts

2006-11-19T08:42:00.000-08:00

It is no longer enough to go to work ready to minister to patients needs, brow mopping and whatever other stereotypes the media would have us do. No, work has now seemingly taken on an added dimension if the last two weeks are anything to go by.

As if one flood wasn’t enough we had a carbon copy flood a week later. Interspersed by a few power failures. Resulting in the temporary installation of a generator. What is it coming to? Not enough electricity, too much water.

So as the weekend draws to a close I have the beginnings of that Monday morning feeling, but to the power of 10. The bets are on as to whether it will be swarms of locusts, hurricanes or snow storms that hit us this week.

Siege mentality is wearing thin, replaced instead by weary resignation. Still I am going prepared, with an extra pair of socks and a torch.

Singing is banned!

2006-11-10T14:00:00.000-08:00

I was sat at work today when someone dropped into the conversation that our employers have banned singing! Yes, you heard me right…. Banned singing? What is that all about?

Now to me it sounds farcical, in fact I did laugh when I was told. A tinkling laugh that I hope sounds like singing to their oh so sensitive ears.

First let me explain. It is not as if we break into falsetto voices at every given opportunity, communicating only by song. We talk, we communicate, we work damn hard. Yes, we do sing and yes I have to admit at times it can be fairly rousing. (particularly when we launch into a Carpenters medley). But, I’d like to think that we are intelligent enough to judge the situation and act accordingly. For example, it is not as if we are stood serenading poorly patients as they manically gesture for a vomit bowl. It is simply a harmless case of “whistle while you work”. Apparently good enough for the seven dwarfs, but not us.

So, it would seem that our esteemed employers deem us to lack the necessary intellectual capacity to exercise our judgment. Individuality it would appear is frowned upon.

…..As if this wasn’t bad enough (and I haven’t even got onto the rules about physical contact) it would seem that such banality also exists outside the workplace. Tonight, four of us went out for a pizza. Fairly straightforward you’d imagine. It was, until a fifth person joined us and asked for a drink. Apparently that is against the rules. No food, no drink. OK, perhaps I can understand this rule if it was a table of people just ordering drinks, but one out of five, give me a break. Well, yes, infact they eventually did and used their discretion. But the fact is they had to raise it as an issue in the first place and made us feel such a request was unreasonable.

The question seems to be at what level are these non sensical rules created? At the coalface or by some mystical manager? Are employees so intimidated that they daren’t deviated from the rehearsed dialogue drummed into them in training sessions. Do they swap their initiative for a shiny name badge? If they fail to ask us if we would like help packing our carton of milk and 2 cans of baked beans will they spontaneously combust, I very much doubt it.

All I ask for is the simple acknowledgement that we are individuals and act accordingly. Do not just get the rulebook out and recite it word for word.

Flood alert!

2006-11-06T12:31:00.000-08:00

I occasionally rant about my job, there are moments I love it and moments I am truly exasperated by it. Spurred on by the writing of Stephen King, who says write about your job I have come to the realisation that some of these tales are actually quite amusing.... and in some cases so farcical you just couldn't make them up.

I do sometimes wish I worked in an office,this morning was a prime example. Walking through the front door into the clinic at 6:45am to be met by 3 inches of water lapping at my feet I felt very passionately that my destiny was to work in an office.

I can pretty much guarantee that you do not splash as you walk into the office. If you're wondering, I work as a nurse and 3 inches of water is not the norm!!

At 8:45am I stood and surveyed the distaster zone. An amusing mix of clinical efficiency and aesthetic chaos. The floor a mosaic of squashed cardboard boxes and nigh on 100 blankets. Incidently, water sodden blankets weigh a lot, as my aching back will testify.

Nursing is a funny thing, by lunchtime my back had progressed to screaming, my trousers were rolled up to my knees and my feet squelched with every step. I had additionally taken on an alluring musty smell that would stay with me for the rest of the day.

Of course if I had an office job I would undoubtably not have to endure this bizarre multi tasking that comes with every shift, regardless of h20 intervention, but nursing is like that. It drains you to your very marrow, but at the same time is curiously addictive.

Incidently the source of the flood remains a mystery.

A short story

2006-11-05T13:30:00.000-08:00

Remember me? It’s a silly question I know, after all I see you every day.

It’s funny how you can spend so much time with someone and yet worry they have forgotten the essence of who you are. Are you remembering me when I see you hour upon hour, lying there statue like, your eyes staring blankly ahead into a void of darkness? I like to think in these moments you are trying to reach out to me, responding to my presence. I long to hear your laugh. It’s still there in my mind, but I am so scared one day it won’t be there for me. Memories are precious, they are all I have.

You’ve changed of course, it’s inevitable. You’re a lot quieter now. Of course I know the truth, they tell me often enough. Apparently it’s how it’s meant to feel. To be expected they say. I think these words are meant to be a balm for the soul.

I haven’t changed. I am still me. I still have all those annoying little habits that you patiently endured out of love. Now I am aware of them, these annoying habits have become my link to you. Can you hear me sniffing? I’ve lost my handkerchief, again.

I remember that day everything changed and you left me. I expect you remember it too. The driver wasn’t really to blame, I know they said in the inquest he was going too fast, possibly he was. I’ve talked to him you know, he’s a nice man who misses his wife as I miss you. He says he didn’t see the dog until the last moment and swerved from its path instinctively. Sadly it was our path he swerved into.

Who knows the hand fate deals? I tried to come back to you. I fought so hard, but they wouldn’t let me. I was with you through all your stay in hospital, I was there waiting for you when they discharged you. Remember how you noticed the kettle seemed warm, that was me. I am with you always, maybe not in body, but the most precious part of me, my love and essence will remain by your side always. Apparently it was just my time.

Update on chaos

2006-11-05T13:23:00.000-08:00

My blog seems to be a chaotic melting pot of ideas at the moment. Though of course wholly refective of my life. I am as we speak mixing up beauty treatments, whilst simultaneously writing witty memoirs of the road trip so that I can post them some time soon. Not satisfied with the number of semi completed pieces of work I thought I would add another element into the equation.....a short story. Admittedly very short, but the key thing is it's completed. (unlike the road trip blogs and the updates on the beauty treatments!).

Road Trip for Geeks

2006-10-08T14:30:00.000-07:00

The ultimate experiment:

Objective: 2 week tour of Great Britain, interspersed with copious amounts of reading, relaxing and fun.

Equipment: 2 people (preferably of the geek variety), 24 books, a pretty nifty sports car and a map of Great Britain.

Method: Using the equipment provided to navigate round Great Britain, stopping at various destinations to absorb its culture and history. Food, drink, good company and books will further enhance this experience.

Results: Currently a work in progress. Results to follow

Freckles- Friend or Foe?

2006-09-26T13:43:00.000-07:00

So why beauty products and why in particular Eastern?

If I am honest, when I went to Hay on Wye I was looking for a book on old fashioned housekeeping hints. The idea was that I could recreate them and write about how they worked in a modern society. In my mind I had visions of an enthralling blog that became a compulsive read the world over.

But the best laid plans. Futile searches in the first few bookshops led to a deterioration in this initial exuberance. As my attention wandered, I wandered with it, finding myself in the health and beauty section. Hidden away amongst the dusty old books depicting women with big 1980’s hair and dodgy leotards I found Beauty and the East.

It is likely that this book wouldn’t particularly have caught my attention, save for one fact. My Indian friend and work colleague has spent the best part of two years trying to get me to go with her to the beauty parlour.

It has crossed my mind as to why she is so keen for me to go. Is my skin in crisis? Does she just like my company? The truth of the matter was revealed one day after a delightful weekend in the sun. On seeing me she was horrified. Had I arrived with a blob of toothpaste on my face? Or possibly a rash had manifested itself during my 20 minute commute. A quick dash to a mirror allayed my fears, surely I was just a seductive brown.

Eventually, after a morning of frenzied sideward glances she took me aside and asked me what had happened to my face. Apparently freckles are some unsightly blemish as viewed through Asian eyes.

Later in the day I was regaling this story to my Filipino, Euro and African colleagues, fully expecting their response to be one of mirth, much like my own. It wasn’t. As I sat there finding myself explaining freckles I realised how locked in we are by the boundaries of our own cultures. How something so integral and accepted by one person could be so foreign to others. So, when I happened upon this flimsy, dusty paperback on Eastern beauty the decision was made, could I realise beauty through their eyes. The journey began.

Uberbabe or ubersensitive?

2006-09-01T15:13:00.000-07:00

Ok, So two weeks have passed since my last entry, inspite of my promise to post regular updates on my foray into Eastern beauty. Infact, I have been splattering products on my face. I just haven't had time to write about it. Safe to say it has not involved either allergic reactions or supermodel talent scouts! An update will follow soon!

The Yolk of an Egg

2006-08-19T16:57:00.000-07:00

Day one of the beautification process:

It probably wasn't the best of timing. I had planned my first recipe concocting session for an evening following a 14 hr shift at work. Even more so given it was a Saturday and getting up early on a weekend always feels worse. It makes a 14hr work day feel like 24. But the day crept along, I struggled through and eventually it was time to go home.

Leaving work at 19:00 I drove home, spending the commute trying to convince myself that mixing, zesting and pulping lemons would indeed be a cathartic experience. The perfect antidote to a long day. 25 minutes later as I arrived home I had succeeded in convincing myself. So much so that I walked through the front door, barely pausing to drop my bag and headed straight for the kitchen. Admittedly this zeal was slightly overboard and unnecessary. Let's be honest, there was hardly anything urgent about covering my face with blends of various food stuffs, but that's just me. I was focused on the task ahead. Indeed for most people they would have realised that beginning such an adventure after a long day at work may not have been the most sensible of ideas. But common sense and me rarely cross paths.

So that is why I am sat here at 9pm, with tired eyes and a face that feels as if it has been dipped in concrete. From my vague recollections of face masks this is akin to how they feel. Which in my mind means one of two things. Either the concoction on my face is pretty similar to commercial face masks. Or it could quite simply be that if you smear anything over your face the skin becomes taut. Something I will obviously have to further investigate.

But the questions I am sure you are all asking is what was in this concoction and did it work! Firstly, no lemons, they're still sat on the kitchen worksurface. With half a dozen eggs sat redundant in the fridge, I decided eggs were the way to go. So now I am sat here with egg on my face, quite literally. Well, egg yolk and a desertspoon of olive oil.

At this moment I have to confess that I didn't pay a great deal of notice as to exactly what it promised to do to my skin. All I know is that at the moment my skin has taken on a rather attractive orange tinge. As for the question of whether it worked. Perhaps a little too early to tell, but thankfully no sign of swelling or red blotches yet.

Having completed recipe number one fairly painlessly I think there may be visible benefits to these treatments. Though, I think my concocting skills may need a little honing in the future. It's incredible how much mess you can make mixing an egg yolk and olive oil. So whilst my skin may take on an undefinable glow, it is all inconsequential if I'm stood covered in splashes of egg!

Lotions and Potions

2006-08-17T14:43:00.000-07:00

For those of you who know me, (when I say know I mean have seen me) you would probably be surprised to hear that one of my most recent book acquisitions was one on beauty. More precisely, on Eastern beauty. You’ll be less surprised to hear that the reason for this purchase is not straightforward!

However, it’s not that I’m not interested in beauty and it’s not that I don’t try to look feminine. It’s just that I seem on the whole to fail, or at least don’t manage stereotypical feminine with ease or competence. That’s fine with me though. I’ve gone through the phase of meticulously putting make up on before I leave the house (ok when I say before I leave the house I really mean in the car on the way to college!) Said make up usually managed to stay on my face for about 2 hrs until it seemed to mysteriously vanish. (Admittedly having my face hovering over a Bunsen burner in Chemistry was seemingly not compatible with matt finish foundation).

So I am now of the opinion that femininity is more a state of mind and actually has very little to do with the shade of lipstick you are wearing.

Having said all this it is not as if I have an aversion to looking, or at least trying to look babelike too and I do possess a cupboard full of beautification paraphernalia. Should I so desire I know I could put my hand on something that would tone/ moisturise/ cleanse/ buff/ tan or add sparkle to my skin. I even get marginally excited when Boots send me an email to tell me I can get double clubcard points should I fork out for some obscure beauty product. (However this is probably more an indication of my love of boots clubcard points! – current total £31 than my love of obscure sounding beauty products).

Why the beauty book then? Well I have a plan, not a particularly cunning plan, but a plan all the same. I am going to take inspiration from the ancient east and start making my own skincare products. (Avoiding all the recipes that use lethal ingredients like lead!) Ok, now at this moment even I am sat here trying to figure all this out. Someone who has a cupboard full of lotions and potions to hand which in spite of this she doesn’t use is going to spend hours making lotions and potions from obscure and indeed vial sounding ingredients.

The missing link in all of this is Julie and Julia, a fabulous novel I wouldn’t hesitate in recommending. Which basically follows Julie Powell’s journey through the epic task of cooking every recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cookery. So my idea? Share my experiences as I grate, plup, blend and apply various foul sounding concoctions to my face and body.

It may be entertaining reading, I guess time will tell! But if I don't post anything on here for a while you can probably assume I've had some allergic reaction which has made my eyes swell up so I can't type. Or there is the alternative explanation that my skin has become so wonderful that I have been spotted and will soon be gracing a cover of Vogue minus the need for airbrushing out inperfections!!!!!!

The Jury

2006-07-05T08:34:00.000-07:00

I was in two minds about posting this. It's not meant as a diatribe, with no intent other than simply an expression of opinion.

I refuse to be made to feel guilty. I am fundamentally a good person. I don’t break laws (ok, I may speed occasionally!), I don’t run around terrorising the neighbourhood and I am not a social nuisance. The only thing I am guilty of is falling out of love. The last thing I’d heard this wasn’t a crime. Yet I am being punished for a decision made out of self preservation. All around me people are holding court, my judge and jury.

The fact of the matter is, my judge and jury is made up of those that expel the matter of their lives on the gristle of gossip, eager anticipation of reality TV extravaganza's and prophesying on life experiences they have not lived.

I understand such things are important to people and anyone that partakes is welcome to their entertainment, even if that does include my life. What does bother me though, is that these same people have formulated opinions on this life of mine and then chose to impart them to me as if they can salve my angst!

So, if you have offered me some opinion of what I 'should' do to save my marriage I would ask you to consider the following and then move on if our friendship is important to you.

I am a 31 year old female perfectly capable of making up my own mind regarding what is acceptable or what constitutes minimal requirements for a relationship.

I do realise that I entered into a binding relationship known to modern culture as a marriage, but you should be aware that this did not in anyway include ownership of my body or mind. I entered into a mutual relationship centred around an emotional commitment.

I am not stupid, incapable or vulnerable. I am in fact the owner of three degrees in unrelated subjects and learning is a passion that is ongoing. The fact that I chose to be emotionally trusting is my own choice.

I am a caring and thoughtful person. I have no desire to emotionally hurt anyone or make this any more difficult for both of us and our families. I cannot however be held accountable for any dilemmas manufactured by idle gossip.

I will not now lock myself in some chaste tower, but rather try too breath a little and tentatively experience a life almost forgotten. I am a human being and this is allowed, regardless of whether I do this with male or female friends, please keep your insecurities to yourself.

Finally, although you have only found out about this in the last few weeks, our failing relationship is something we have been fighting to save for nearly a year. I have not suddenly reached this conclusion. Now I have though I would like to move on.

Dream jobs

2006-06-23T02:44:00.000-07:00

I unashamedly have stolen this idea from a conversation I had with friends recently. (who incidently are the sum total of my regular blog readers, so they'll just have to put up with a moment of deja vous)

Music, It's a powerful medium. We use it to create, elevate and reflect mood. For me it is also the foundation of my alternative career. The one i'd do if only..... (well I don't know if only what).

I defy anyone to say that they don't have a dream job. Just think for a few minutes and you'll surely be able to think of a job that you wished you had the opportunity to do. For the most part it's totally unattainable, like for instance being a supermodel. Or, at the very least impractical. But that's almost the point, it's a pipedream, an indulgence, something you don't have to take responsibility for. You know that this dream won't result in endless rounds of job interviews.

My early teenage years were spend pouring over Stage magazine in the vague hope I'd see open auditions for my dream job. To sing on stage in the West End. I gave it a lot of thought, too much thought probably. The reality is that such jobs probably did come up, but I chose not to see them. Hence I'm a nurse!

However, should someone come up to me today and offer me the part of Cosette in Les Miserables I'd be there in a shot. But therein lies the crux of the matter. Someone will not just wander up to me on the street and offer me this job. I will not be talent spotted as I make up little songs to sing to the patients. If I truely wanted to change career I'd be out there attending endless auditions and tracking down the opportunity.

So, i've figured on a compromise - open mic session. Okay, so I won't be there performing showtunes in a pub. But I'm sure I can find a suitable alternative. So now rather than pouring over Stage magazine, I'm sat trawling through itunes searching for inspiration! Any ideas gratefully received!

The River Thames

2006-06-13T15:04:00.000-07:00

I love the River Thames, well all rivers I guess (except some parts of the River Severn, where is not so much river than thick mud) But there is something about the River Thames. As it meanders through the various counties it attracts a diverse array of visitors. All of which makes for fantastic people watching. That is how I spend my time. I take a book, sometimes I read, sometimes I write and other times I just watch.

The pace of life seems different down by the river, people make eye contact and acknowledge each other as you pass on the towpaths. Strangers even talk to you. I don't mean a cursory "morning" I mean proper conversations.

So today I decided to go for a walk, donned my shorts, rucksack etc (Tshirt, socks, shoes, even underwear!!) and headed off, mentally tossed a coin (Henley won). Got there for about half 9, walked about 50paces and encountered the friendliness that is the river Thames. So 15mins later after a lengthy discussion with 2 elderly men about Boris Johnson and racism in the UK (obviously talking about the weather is now passe, plus one was Australian so obviously had little interest in the weather) I continued for another half hr. Stopped for quick read (for the first time in 2 weeks I was not reading erotica) and returned.

...(Incidently the penchant for reading erotica is less of a penchant more of an obligation, as suggested as a book club book. Though having said that I now rave about the book and would recommend it to anyone to help them break away from their normal genres, ok well maybe not elderly ladies!).....

Anyway, back to the Thames. On the return leg now feeling partially innorgorated into the River Thames Towpath gang I stopped again to continue the discussion. Passing comment on the neatness of the boat pensioner number 1 was painting (as in the actual boat, not art) I was offered a drink and the conversation continued. Somehow got onto groundsheets (well bearing in mind by this point I had already discussed current affairs, it seemed a natural progression). Pensioner number 1 mentioned he had one he'd never used, so after much polite muttering about how much would he like for it etc it was foisted upon me, with protestations that it would make the boat less cluttered!

Maybe it's the sun, but I doubt it. There is something liberating about the River. I very much doubt that the high street would ever bear witness to such exchanges between total strangers.

Guilty pleasures

2006-06-09T00:59:00.000-07:00

It's 11am and I have just spent a blissful half hour induging in my guilty pleasure..... intrigued? Well, picture the scene. A glorious sunny day, (23.5 degrees according to the car),driving through beautiful tree clad country lanes with the windows down, feeling the warmth of the sun on my arm (warmth which has now turned it a lovely shade of pink). Perfect.... except that was just pleasure. The guilty part........ the music I'm listening to ....The Black Eyed Peas. Ok, hardly a crime and indeed guilt may be the wrong word. But everytime I select CD 4 on the player I feel it's slightly wrong, slightly inappropriate. That I should be listening to music more suitable to someone my age - whatever that may be.

I defy anyone to look inside themselves and not find such a pleasure lurking somewhere! The key thing is realising it, then you can enjoy it all the more.

Racing & resolutions

2006-06-04T12:25:00.000-07:00

Positivity in bucketloads today! I ran the 5km Race for Life. Everyone knows the statistics, but somehow seeing people running in celebration of their own fight, or in memory of someone, or for someone who has fought and overcome cancer hits home more. A pretty sobering thought to see all the dedications on peoples backs as they ran.

On a personal level I have finally achieved 2 New Years Resolutions. (Though I refuse to call them that as it all sounds so trite, so make that "Things I plan to do this year!!") These being to enter a competitive race and to raise money for charity. Fantastic - so all I have to do now is publish an academic piece of work and write a novel. Oh and get a flat stomach/thin thighs/pert bum etc etc etc. All of which sound pretty inconsequential and self absorbed when you think about today and the reason for the race.

Self limiting self fulfillment

2006-06-01T15:53:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it takes conversations with friends to help you realise certain aspects of your personality. Except half the time they are traits you are subconsciously aware of. For me this is my desire, or should I say need to achieve a sense of self fulfillment. For years I've harboured the same dreams, to swim the channel, to run a marathon, well to complete a competitive run of any distance, to get an entry in the Guninness Book of Records, to win/earn a medal/trophy/certificate. Plus of course, not forgetting the most recent addition - to be a member of the olympic archery/handball team! Anything that shows I have progressed beyond the three legged race at the age of 6! It's funny though the ease in which you can push these desires to the back of your mind.

So why haven't I achieved any of these? Fear and lack of self belief I guess. I'm skilled in finding numerous excuses for why not to achieve these goals. But this doesn't make my desire to achieve them any less. It's just that it is overwhelmed by my fear - of failure? or maybe a fear of achieving. Afterall, then what?

It's now time though to stop hiding behind feeble excuses. On Sunday I'm running 5km. Not far I know, but for me the challenge is not primarily about the distance, simply the fact that instead of talking about it, I'm doing it.

What next? Well if summer really is on its way, a bit of swimming sounds idillic!!!

Goodbyes and erotica

2006-06-01T03:39:00.000-07:00

Today I am sad. I have just taken my friend to the airport - nothing particularly sad about that I know, especially as she is coming back in 4 weeks. (We live 100 miles apart, so several thousand extra miles shouldn't make that much difference). But this trip is different, she is taking her 2 and a half yr old daughter on holiday, back to the Phillipines to see her parents. Having a lovely holiday and then having to do the hardest thing she has ever done. Leave her daughter, whom she adores with her parents for 6 months so that she can get her life back on track. It just puts everything into perspective.

So needless to say the resolve to not cry has gone out of the window, but everyone's allowed to cry at airports.

Onto more light hearted things - well the erotica is evoking plenty of emotion, but ironically hilarity rather than sensuality. I haven't laughed so much in ages!!

Libraries and nostalgia

2006-05-30T12:50:00.000-07:00

Have you ever revisited a place you haven't been to for years and almost felt yourself be transported back in time? I don't mean Dr Who-esque, but just being a slave to your senses, smells, sights, sounds. They can all evoke the strongest of emotions.

The place this happened to me? my local library. You reach an age where libraries no longer seem to serve a purpose. Supermarkets provide a glut of cheap books. (I love the guilty thrill I get of throwing in a book with the weekly shop - or is that just me!?!) and the internet, well the internet can answer pretty much any question you may have.

As an avid reader for as long as I can remember, libraries were central to my childhood. Struggling to the counter carrying as many books as my tickets would allow. (These were the days where you had a handful of tickets as opposed to a solitary card). I can still remember the excitement I'd feel if I was the first person to take out a book and get the first stamp in it. The days when Famous Five books were in hardback.

Even into adulthood, libraries were still central to my life. Though at university as the textbooks got bigger the struggle got harder and numerous rucksack straps broke under the strain of various tomes of anatomy being shoved into them.

As I eventually dragged myself away from the role of eternal student, to that of responsible, tax paying citizen libraries began to become a distant memory and I missed them.
In the many hours I've spent in them I've flirted (I go for the nerdy look!!), written, daydreamed, people watched, had the odd illicit kiss and of course studied.

So how did I find the library 2006? Well in a strange way, little had changed. The smell was the same, as was the sense of tranquility. But much to my amusement so also appeared to be the choice of authors. As I wandered around the shelves the same names leapt out at me as they had done many years ago. I'm glad I've rejoined. The internet is revolutionary as is
www.amazon.co.uk. But there are times where you just need to touch the books and wander around aimlessly, fervently hoping you'll happen upon a new author.

What I do now as I pass time in the library? - simple, just picture my novel there! Plus maybe look for the odd book on archery!

A healthy dose of denial

2006-05-29T07:36:00.000-07:00

Ok. So much for sticking to my resolution to write copious amounts. But of course I have an excuse. I've been celebrate my birthday. I escaped to my parents, turned off my phone and felt safe. What a wonderful feeling, 48 hrs of denial. I now feel ready to face anything. (Ok not quite anything, but a hell of a lot more that I could face last week!!). So with that in mind I will:
-try not to burst into tears on various friends shoulders!
-walk 10,000 steps a day - got a pedometer for my birthday and yes, it's official I am a sloath, cunningly disguised as a female!!!
-Book myself in the beginners archery course (hehe I'm really keeping this positivity thing going!!)
-Read some erotica! (more on that later!!)

Hmmm what an eclectic mix of achievements I will have under my belt.

Nursing - the unofficial guide

2006-05-25T05:01:00.000-07:00

There are times when I love my job, I mean really love my job. In these moments I truely believe I have found my vocation (incidently I'm not a nun!). I am a nurse.

I never set out to be a nurse, far from it. From the age of 11 I was going to be a doctor and nothing was going to stand in my way. Nothing that was except nerves and a subsequent rather poor interview performance! So that is why 16 yrs (ouch I can't believe it's quite that long) later I qualified as a nurse. Admittedly it was a bit protracted, but I got distracted with various other career options along the way!

There is so much more to nursing than mopping brows (yes I have done this) and chasing after Drs (done this too, but after many alcoholic berverages). Nursing is ones of those professions to which 101 cliches are attached. Which is quite possibly why so many nurses leave the profession after qualifying. It's time to dispell those myths:

-Firstly (and most importantly). Nurses uniforms are not sexy in any shape or form. Infact therein lies the problem, they have no shape or form! Unless you have a fetish for unflattering polyester garments banish that thought instantly.

-Nurses are not Tony Blair's angels (God forbid). We are not angels by any stretch of the imagination. To call us that (yes it has happened to me) is tantamount to.... well I don't know, it's just too awful to contemplate.

-Nurses do not have sex with Drs in laundry cupboards. (well maybe they do and I've just missed out!) For starters you wouldn't have the time and secondly linen is such a rare commodity there is never any there. So it would be obvious what you were up to.

But nursing does have its unforgettable moments, the moments that make you laugh and cry. Where else would you find yourself demonstrating kickboxing/streetdance/reenacting west end show tunes to a captive audience? I'd like to think that alongside giving out pills, ranting at drs, taking blood etc I am giving that little bit of me. What do I get in return? big hugs :0)

A little bit of creativity

2006-05-22T04:58:00.000-07:00

Sitting, leaning against the door she listens to the silence. She knows though that it won’t stay that way for long. Silence is only ever an interlude, a precursor to something bigger. The silence is broken, footsteps make their way up the stairs, getting louder as they draw closer, drawers and cupboards are being pulled opened and closed and finally a suitcase is zipped up. Then there is silence again.

Time passes. Yet she stays still, as if scared to move. If she moves, she becomes real and everything that is happening around her becomes real. By staying still it’s almost as if it’s a dream and reality is suspended. Except of course, it’s not. This is all very real.

The silence is broken as footsteps make their way towards her. She hears them pass the door, the door she is leaning against. They pause, as they do so she holds her breath in anticipation. In anticipation of what though, she doesn’t know, moreso she doesn’t know what she wants to happen next. Part of her wants them to walk in her direction, to see him one last time. That’s the thing about love, no matter how much the hurt and the anger there is that small part of you that doesn’t want to let go. But is that love or being scared of the future?

Positivity

2006-05-21T08:05:00.000-07:00

Right! New positive attitude, new resolutions, new everything. Am going to write something on here a few times a week. Okay, so with that there may be a correlation between positivity and a rapid deterioration of the waffle I churn out. Ah well, am sure some gems will manifest themselves occassionally! Plus of course this whole exercise is a cathartic, self indulgent exercise, I hardly feel Booker prize material being produced.

The reason for this? Well it will help my typing skills, being sat infront of a computer makes me feel powerful (only kidding - sitting on my bed, balancing my laptop on my knees whilst simultaneously trying not to drop special K bar crumbs in the keyboard is probably the antitheses of power) Anyway don't particularly want to be powerful. Though for years I have always harboured a desire to have a job which involves wearing clip cloppy shoes. (Ok, sounding a bit like a child in a dressing up box now!) and I figure the more I write the more competent I should become. Either that or I'll realise that I really have no skills in this area so should stop now!

Along with this new found positivity (not quite sure where it has come from!) I also plan to be less introspective. I want the old me back, the me who has fun, who laughs at the stupidest of things (more often than not myself!) giggling uncontrollably, who is inspired who is motivated, who is full of energy and just enjoys life. Plus I wouldn't mind a few extras on the side - Well everything can be improved upon. So make that thighs/bum/abs/arms to die for (ok, total body overhaul!), hair a al shampoo commercial (as in grows down as opposed to out) and a talent in something.

The desire to have a talent in something leads me to a conversation I had with friends last night(yes, I do have friends, though from the self indulgence of the last few posts you'd be forgiven for thinking I live alone on an island in the middle of nowhere). Somehow the topic of conversation got onto the Olympics and 2012 and how we'll be too old to compete. Actually at this point alarm bells should have been ringing that in actual fact it is my lack of athletic prowess that is stopping me competing, not my age! Yet that factor didn't appear to figure much in my thought processes. So there we were wondering which sports we could possbibly stand a vague chance of learning/becoming world class at/being selected for Olympics. The answer handball (apparently not overly popular) or archery (age may be less of a handicap). So the next step. Well get myself a ball and start playing catch I imagine!

...either that or take a bit of a reality check and look for a slightly more attainable goal. So it looks like i'm heading off to space.

Ah well we all have to dream

Who am I?

2006-05-13T13:17:00.000-07:00

So, for days now I have sat infront of the computer trying to think of something insightful or inspirational (or even insipid- just to keep the alliteration thing going!!). Yet nothing earthshattering or indeed witty has sprung to mind. However, I have just realised this is not a problem, I will write anyway. Granted it may not be of much interest, but heh that's life. We don't generally run around with one liners flying out of our mouths left, right and centre. Infact, can you imagine anything worse than someone perpetually happy.

.....Which neatly brings me onto my resolution to break out of the SUL habit. Have done this with remarkable panache. I sobbed on a friend's shoulder with remarkable prowess. Then in the same 12 hrs I found myself also crying with laughter - emotions are fickle things! So, the day's positivity score. An average of 7 - with peaks of 9 and lows of -4. Confused? well me too!

At the moment I feel like I'm on some rollercoaster ride of emotions. With highs where I laugh, relax and remember for a fleeting moment who I am and lows where I just want to scream "stop this ride I want to get off!" But more importantly it's made me start to ask...Who am I?

I've never liked uncertainty in life, I find it unsettling and tiring. I like having a constant to ground me. Take life for example, I can cope with all manner of crises, provided there is something in my life that remains constant. I guess in some ways it's a bit like being a boat bobbing around in the sea. As long as the boat is anchored it can bob away without coming to too much harm. But take away the anchor and the boat becomes vulnerable. (Ok, a bit too much overanalysis there, but you get the jist, I'm a boat with a dodgy anchor!)

Anyway, all this introspection has led me to wonder just who I am, how others percieve me and amusingly whether there is any correlation between the two! Recently I have noticed a tendency for me to compartmentailise various aspects of my life, almost to the extent that I'm being to feel I become different people in specific situations. Or at least different versions of the same person. But what does this mean? Some would argue that it means I am not being myself in certain situations. But there is also the counterargument that different situations and people bring out different aspects of your personality.

The accusation that "You've changed" is one frequently heard in relationships. Reading between the lines it probably means "Help! get me out of here, you're not what I thought!" In relationships these words are about as welcome as "We need to talk", "It's not you, it's me" etc etc. But the whole point is, is change really a bad thing? Ok, obviously huge shifts in personality, principles, beliefs may cause a few problems. But the reality has to surely be that we do change, we evolve, as we experience life so life shapes us.

Is it really so important that we have a definative answer to who we are? Seemingly so, we love quizzes that purport to tell us things about ourselves. Open any women's magazine and the odds are you'll find some quiz, enlightening you about some aspect of your personality. Be it your sexual preferences, your exercise style, what you'll be like when you're older, what you're really like now. Anything it seems can be put in a series of closed questions and come up with a definative answer.

Take for example these insights into who I am! Amazon (www.amazon.co.uk) perceives me as a person who would buy Riverdance. A quiz on a website www.greatwriting.co.uk said that I should be a joke writer (hmmm possibly not!!) . Whilst a personality quiz on a BBC website (www.bbc.co.uk) tells me I have a mentor personality, meaning apparently that I am extrovert, outgoing, empathic and like to keep the peace. Enthused by these answers I then went on to answer a quiz about which of Santa's reindeer I'd be!! Apparently a shy one, who could be naughty!! What have these quizzes told me about myself? Not a lot to be honest (though it's always useful to know what type of reindeer you'd be!!).

But all this has got me thinking how do people view me? The only way to really find out is to ask them outright, but the reality is that most would probably tell me what they think I wanted to hear. I imagine though that if I asked my friends, family, colleagues to write down three words to describe me they'd all be very different, but equally relevant.

So after all this, who am I!!? I could tell you, but surely it would be much more fun for you to hypothesize and come up with your own theories. Who knows, you might even have a better idea than me!

Hope

2006-05-02T13:13:00.001-07:00

I have decided to rate my days on a scale of positivity - No idea why, no particular reason why. Though it may be amusing to see if there is a relationship between the positivity score and the readability of this waffle.

Ok, so today rates at a 6 (1 being help get me out of here, 10 being wow I bet there isn't a drug that makes you feel this good).

So the past couple of days have been interesting and have exposed me to the whole gambit of emotions. You name it, I've felt it. From down right despair ( I wasn't great company in these moments), self pity (involving lots of tears), anger (more tears). Yet the one that left me feeling at my most vulnerable and rawest state was HOPE. A simple word, that sounds so innocuous, yet I am now of the opinion that hope is one of the strongest emotions we possess, far surpassing love and hate. Without hope what have we got, goals seem pointless, infact it permeates into every aspect of our lives rendering our existance worthless without it.

A quick search on the internet with the keywords hope and emotion revealed the following website www.emotioneric.com which I feel compelled to provide a link to for two reasons: It's the first one on the list and secondly, well you'll see for yourself, possible a more self indulgent website than this blog (ok maybe not) - But I can't wait to see the face for "realisation that your autographed life size elvis doll has been stolen". Pure genius - Ok, genius may not be quite the description I'm looking for, but it's put my life into perspective. Losing a husband (unautographed) compared to losing a life sized Elvis (autographed) - no comparison.

So as it stands at the moment I have hope. Vague hope, possibly misdirected hope, but hope all the same and it is that that has allowed me to function and to think beyond today. True, if things go back from not so bad to bad then the pain felt will be worse than ever, but that's the deal with hope. You have to expose yourself to the risks to stop feeling the pain.

The beginning- Girl aged 30

2006-04-30T16:15:00.000-07:00

30, it sounded such a good age, if ages can sound good, well you know what I mean, just the way it rolls around your mouth and flicks off your tongue sounds nice and cheery – ok I’ll stop now, I can see it’s only me that thinks this! Anyway the point is that 30 has not been a good age. Ironic really as I wasn’t even that concerned about reaching it. So many of my friends go through mini crises at the though of reaching this milestone, lamenting they haven’t done anything. Me, well I had to be different so I’m going through a crisis of the major, life sapping variety here, right now at the ripe of old age of 30yrs and 10 months (Well I’ve been going through it since 30yrs and 6months- but at that point it was all I could do to get out of bed and go to work, writing a wry account of it all would have been too much – for me writing it and you reading it. Hysterical ramblings are not conducive to a good read). Not that I can promise this won’t have its hysterical moments, I’ve just become more adept at smiling through the misery and hysteria. My stiff upper lip is so damn stiff I think it’s got rigor mortis

So anyway annus horriblis wishing to sound regal for a moment, well actually I don’t want to sound regal at all. Can you think of anything worse that being a member of the royal family and still having to go to all those functions knowing your life was a total mess and even worse that everyone was laughing at your misfortune, nodding sagely at each other saying “Ah, you see, money doesn’t buy happiness”. Anyway as another aside my crisis doesn’t yet qualify as an annus horriblis, it’s a 4monthus horriblis (clearly my lack of knowledge of Latin shows – I did German and French, but the teachers were more keen that we learn key phrases like “I live in the south west of England” “I’m having a crappy year” never cropped up – funny that!)

Just for the record, google translate has found the answer, clearly needs a bit of tweaking but it will do for starters.

J'ai une année de crap

Ich habe ein crapjahr

So having established that I’m 30 and I’m going through a life crisis (am sure the Americans must have some snappy turn of phrase for this). I’d better tell you a bit about the crisis in question.

Today is the day when the well practiced smile has slipped and maybe I’m beginning to be realistic. Which has lead me to wonder just how healthy all this stiff upper lip/putting a brave face on it attitude is. More importantly, why do we do it?

There is the thought that your private life is just that, private and yes to a certain extent that’s true. When you pop to the supermarket the last thing you want to hear in the 10 items or less isle is how the checkout person’s life is in turmoil. But that’s an extreme, the reality is that we present this same façade even with our friends and family. There is the notion perhaps that it’s a sign of fallibility. I used to think that made us human, but perhaps not – maybe nowadays to be human is to be an automaton.

For some reason, hearing about the emotions of others doesn’t rest easily on our ears. So why is it then that we insist on continuing to use the greeting “How are you?” The reality is that in most cases we’re not particularly interested. Which I guess is why, when asked the question we are in may cases economical with the truth, more often than not resulting in the stock phrase, “I’m fine thanks”, whilst smiling inanely. Even if your mother/lover/cat has just died this is how you are expected and indeed programmed to respond. Tell them the truth and chaos breaks loose, the boundaries of social niceties have been pushed to their limits. Afterall they are only words, no one is really interested how you are and even less interested if you’re not ok. Immediately you can see the awkwardness in their face as they try frantically to think of an excuse to escape, the awkward picking at their clothes, the sudden interest at their feet, anything, yes anything it seems other than acknowledge the emotion of others.

So anyway, back to me and my emotions (Am not really a me me me person, far from it, it's just that it's relevant to this bit!) I have now decided that the stiff upper lip approach is useless, particularly when it comes to relationship problems and damaging for a couple of reasons which I am about to share with you.

Firstly there is the floodgate effect, the truth is that if you’re not talking about these things then there is a threshold limit after which time you explode. All the tension/tears/upset have to go somewhere, they don’t just dissipate …..end result they come out in a rush, more often than not in a situation/location where you least expect it. EXCELLENT! Just what you need. It’s ok being thought of as a bit emotional, but do this and the likelihood is you’ll then be labelled as unstable/psychotic/ or just plain crazy.

There’s also the added problem that your bravery will be misconstrued as being callous/hard nosed or strong. The latter not too bad, the former a no-no, particularly if behind closed doors you`re going through boxes of Kleenex like there’s no tomorrow (which makes mattes worse as you know there is a tomorrow and that you have to face it!)

Bearing all this in mind I have come up with a decision, no more happy smiley faces if I don’t feel happy or smiley. (May have to moderate this rule at work slightly as get paid to look happy/smiley) So provided money has not passed hands I can look as damn miserable as I feel. All this may mean some explanation is needed to friends and family….and there in lies the difficult bit.

If you remember right at the beginning I mentioned my 4 months of horriblis, well for the past 4 months, having adopted the SUL ( stiff upper lip) approach very few of my friends/family have been aware of all the turmoil. It’s been a bit like leading a double life. (Must consider career as actress if all else fails, as have perfected the art of talking about G to people who ask without a demonic look/tears in my eyes). Either acting or poker.
(G incidently is my husband, central to this story, though how central to the rest of my life remains to be seen)

What made today the day the SUL became flaccid….well my relationship with G has been rocky to say the least for sometime now. The sad thing is I can’t even remember what started it and turned it into a feud to rival the cold war. All I know is it wasn’t anything earth shattering – G wasn’t having an affair with his secretary/best friend etc. I hadn’t become a lesbian overnight ( or infact hadn’t become a lesbian fullstop). The problem is that looking back now we both have lost sight of this mythical catalyst and have attributed our own reasons for this crisis. Typically these lists bear no resemblance to each other and as with most arguments everything else is dredged up too – from who did what in 2003 to who is likely to do what in 2010.

Being a romantic, soft hearted soul (I may have to review these traits) It always brings a tear to my eye (ok makes me bawl) and think how tragic it is when you hear about people who die on their birthday, out of all the 365 days and fate intervenes with that cruel twist. The empathy is now becoming a reality – not a death as such, well not the death of a person, but of my marriage – and the realisation that it is irreparable comes….. you’ve guessed it, on our wedding anniversary, but not just that, even worse than that, on our first wedding anniversary.

How do you beat that, overcome that, get over that? Well at the moment I have no idea, so that is one reason I'm writing my blog. A purely self-centred cathartic exercise, which hopefully will throw up a few amusing lines along the way. If not, bear with me and indulge me.

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